Thursday, August 30, 2007

There's nothing sadder than seeing a person with a droopy mohawk. Bless their little anti-establishment hearts for trying, but when will these kids realize...it's just not a summer coif.

Yeah, that wasn't much of a hiatus. But I got off work early, bought a belt, walked Diamond Joe Quimby (my chocolate lab nephew) and downed a vodka/tonic (bless my well-stocked waif and bro-in-law) and am practically out the door to meet amy g. for a little Superbad at Cinemagic (local kick ass cheapish theater from the 50s), so I'm feeling a bit better.

Thank you for your kind words. I never know how to address such things. Kind words fall into the same category as compliments for me. I don't really know how to take them, so usually I spew forth some unconsciously sarcastic retort and then pause as I feel the self-loathing rise from where it lies dormant around my hips up through my chest and into my throat in the form of bile.

Ok, maybe that was a bit dramatic...but whatevs...I'm pooped.

**update even though I never posted this last night**

Superbad was glorious. This kid (Michael Cera - seen below) has been one of my favorite people on earth since the pilot episode of Arrested Development. This is who needs to be a goodwill ambassador to the U.N....not shitty actors like Angelina Jolie. Someone needs to get on that.

Monday, August 27, 2007

Can someone please explain to me why or how anyone could think that cinnamon would be a tasty saltwater taffy flavor? Seriously...tastes like shit. Burny shit. Or...something.

Last week was the last home game for the Timbers (at least until playoffs) and guess who was there with 15,000 other folks. If you guessed me, you'd be right and I'd call you special. The Portland Timbers is...are...our soccer team ('football' for you foreigners, of course). I enjoy going. Actually, let me rephrase that...I enjoy getting sloshed and going. There's a section of the stadium, section 107 where everyone gets crazy and angry and yells out awful words like "you cunts!" when they would never otherwise utter them in polite society. It's glorious. I've been going off and on for a couple of years. I'm not much of a sports person. You all know how I feel about physical activity. But I dig these games. I dig any live sport where a fight might break out at any moment. I mean...shirts could come off...ANYTHING could happen. Glorious.

It also helps that soccer is, itself, an interesting sport. Watching any team event on television often inspires the desire to commit self-lobotomization, but live...soccer kicks ass. I mean, I can barely catch a ball with two good hands...you start throwing my feet into the picture...I'm gonna start breaking shit. Like bones and whatnot. So I have a healthy respect for what these men do. And the respect grows with each beer I drink and each box of Cracker Jacks that I consume.

Here's a few pictures. I have more, but I took them with my phone and the quality is less than Kodak, you know? So this is what you get.

Packed house

This is after we scored our one and only goal (the other team didn't score any...suckers). I do believe this is a giant flag going over our head. It was later followed by a crowd surfer. Two, in fact. Marie and I let them know that we did not approve. We've already been to high school, after all. Miscreants.

Just after the goal. Smoke bombs. Screaming. Dudes in kilts. Bouncing. You get the idea.

All in all. Fun. It was fun. The world is not my favorite place at the moment so it was nice to have fun. Summer is almost gone and I feel as though I let it go without telling it how I feel. Sometimes it's really hard to share your feelings, you know? Such a fear of rejection. It can be stifling.

Anyway...the waif, ty and beck are off to Italy for two and a half weeks...the bastards. I have to Quimby-sit. Well...house and Quimby-sit. The things I do for people, honestly. I'm practically a saint. That swears. And drinks. And has premarital sex. And is an atheist. So...yeah.

In honor of their departure...here is this month's signature exploitation of the cuteness that is my nephew.

Thursday, August 23, 2007

I have a bone to pick with some of you. A bone that I can’t pick with each and every one of you at the moment it occurs to me therefore, I will do so here. So pull up a chair and listen as I tell you what.

Pedestrians – It’s not often we have to share a space…but it sometimes happens. Like now, when the BurnsideBridge is being worked on…the bike path has been pushed up on the sidewalk. Guess what that means…it’s not all fucking yours anymore.

1. When you hear my dinosaur eyeball bell…I’m not just making tinkling joyful music to assuage your ears. I’m telling you to move the fuck over so I can pass your slow ass.

2. It is common custom for a bike to pass you on your left. You may recall once or twice in your life you might have heard someone say “on your left”. Though it’s missing the “I’m passing you” portion of the sentence…the implication is that you should watch out for your left side. If you MOVE to your left side. I’m going to fucking hit you. And not say sorry.

3. When I am riding on the street…I am a car. That means that when I have a green light, it is NOT appropriate for you to cross the street in front of me, preventing me from moving forward. Just because I don’t have an engine, doesn’t mean I can’t FUCK YOU UP. And I’m not even the one you should be worried about. You get a messenger riding a fixie with no breaks coming at you at full speed…you better find religion.

4. Do NOT comment on my bike looking “odd” or “strange”. I know it is small. I know the front wheel is a different size than normal. But it kicks ass, and it has a dinosaur eye bell. And you’re walking, so suck it.

Motorists – it’s your turn, you fuckers:

1. Do NOT attempt to pass me on a double yellow lined road when I am riding in the middle of my lane. For all intents and purposes, I am a car. Piss and moan all you like, but don’t risk my life and yours by passing me unsafely just because you want to speed. You twat.

2. Do not get irritated and honk when I stop for a stop sign. I don’t get irritated and ring my bell when you do.

3. Guess what. I don’t like getting hit by the opening doors of parked cars. It’s not my favorite thing in the world. I know. Shocking. So why don’t you appreciate what I’m doing for the environment and allow me to cycle well within the lane without having to worry about you hitting me and me not winning the lawsuit because I wasn’t acting exactly like a car. Fucker.

4. Do NOT roll down your window and presume to lecture me on the rules of the road from your big ass, gas guzzling SUV because I choose to use a crosswalk to get across a busy street where no one will stop for a bike. While we’re at it…Mr. Morality…how much does it cost to fill your monster up? Yeah, keep supporting that war, asshole.

5. And to you fucking cops…. How many hit and runs have there been this year? Cyclists mowed down? Doesn’t matter? We still deserve $200 tickets for occasionally riding on the sidewalk to avoid death? Yeah. I can just feeeel my respect for your authority oozing out my pores.

6. And while we're on the subject...I point in the direction I'm turning because most motorists haven't the faintest idea what the correct hand signals are for left and right. Get off my back.

And with that, I’d like you all to take my requests and demands into consideration in an effort to promote peace and junk. Or you can fuck off and receive the brunt of my post-near-death-experience anger as well as my middle finger if you get in my damn way.

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

**Updated Update**It appears I am now a junkie with a habit to feed. Which I did today.

Will eating a pint of fresh blueberries in one sitting make me sick?

Updates at 10:00.**Update**

It wouldn't let me update at 10:00. Stupid blogger. So, turns out you can totally eat a pint of fresh blueberries in one sitting and walk away unscathed. Now I'm working on two pints of fresh strawberries. For all/any of ye NOT in the U.S....a pint is a lot. Oh, and screw yer metric system.

Monday, August 13, 2007

You know...I talk shit about this state all the time. But who knew that less than an hour away there was this...A French-owned winery and vineyard. With tastings. And get this...only one of 20 in the area. 20 wineries...that all offer tastings.

Did you know you're supposed to spit the wine out after you taste it? I say fuck that.

Have you ever seen a place so beautiful? I've never even been here before. What the hell is my problem?

This winery is called something exotic, like Ann Amie or something frenchish like that. It looked a bit like a monastery. In fact, when I went to find the bathroom (to combat the result of not spitting), I'm relatively certain I passed a room with monks chained to the wall stomping on grapes. True story.

Is this some artistic shit or what?

I can't stop posting pictures of these vineyards. We went to 4 wineries all together. And then to one that makes champagne. What's that called? A champagnery? Yes, I'm sure that's it.

He's so cute. Look at him...he doesn't even know what he's supposed to be smelling. Well, I mean...it's supposed to be the 'bouquet', whatever the fuck that means. I just made shit up. I was all "yes, this one has the essence of the soil" and junk. I don't think I fooled anyone, though.

Anyway. It was fun. And the day was so lovely, we thought for sure that our jaunt to the beach the next day would be just as lovely. But then I forgot I lived in Oregon.

Even August isn't safe. What you see above are people in Cannon Beach eating outside in coats and hoods. Though I'd like to think of myself as a true Oregonian...but I ate inside. Such a pansy.

Ahhh, the Oregon coast. There were three weddings on this beach the day we were there. Stupid bitches. $600 dresses sliding along that sand. Idiots. To be fair to the day, it did get better later on...but come ON...August should be sacred. There's a lighthouse in the middle of the water. You can't go out to it, though. I think that's stupid.This just cracked me up. A beach volleyball tournament between Canada and the U.S. THE most uninteresting sport ever. I know. I played it in High School. Shut up.

This needs no caption.

Those feet there have what I like to call an Oregonian tan.

In case you're super lame and don't recognize the monolith behind Kansas...maybe you should re-visit the best movie ever...and that would be The Goonies.

I'm not trying to document the cheesy-ass sign...because it's cheesy and we didn't even eat there. What I am trying to capture on film for posterity is the bike. That's a three-seater. A THREE SEATER. Imagine taking a corner on that thing. Screw that...imagine trying to put it on a bike rack. Screw that...imagine trying to decide who gets to ride bitch! Oh god, the thing makes me tired just looking at it.

I'm exhausted from this weekend. I'm exhausted from typing words about this weekend. The Oregon tourism board should pay me for this. Fuckers. I'm sending them an invoice anyway.

Saturday, August 04, 2007

Portland has a meager art scene. Of course, I don't know what a non-meager art scene would consist of since I'm about as artistic as a shoe, but anyway...we have something called "First Thursday" in one section of the city...maybe other cities have something similar, I don't know. All the local galleries and some random spaces altered to become galleries open their doors til the wee hours of the night providing wine and crunchy snacks in the hopes that someone will buy their wedding dresses made of wire, self published comic books, and pen and ink portrayals of childhood nightmares.

I don't go often, but I did this last Thursday. This last First Thursday. That's just fun to say. I saw things. Strange things. T-shirts glued together to make a giant tidal wave.A gallery entirely dedicated to paintings of water towers. Hula hoops. Anyway...Marie, Kansas and I were wandering the streets when we happened upon two gaunt, scantily clad, nondescript personages standing in a doorway.

Nondescript personage 1: Would you like to sit inside a womb?Us: Yes.(some things don't even need considering)Nondescript personage 2: Then follow the red string.(points through doorway behind him/her)Nondescript personage 1: It's the placenta.

Gross.

Then it's through hallways, around corners, up stairs, around another corner and the "placenta" stops through another doorway where some people are taking off their shoes. And crawling into the "mouth" of the "womb"...a small, puffy, red satin opening attached to a red, puffy, satin dome. Huh.We watched the others go in first. You don't just go jumping into wombs all willy nilly. There was some "ooohing" and "ahhhing" from inside and then they emerged, put on their shoes and went away.

Now it was our turn.Shoes came off, Marie went in first. I followed...Kansas brought up the rear. I've always loved that term. We had to crawl through a puffy, red, satin crawl way (is that a word?) until we reached the puffy, red, satin chamber. There was music playing. The kind of music you hear going through that neon light extravaganza tunnel in Chicago O'Hare airport. You know the one. So there was that and in the middle of the chamber was an "egg". It looked like a cracked glass/plastic lamp with a yellow bulb. It hung from the ceiling like a spider egg. And there was a heart beat coming from it. Not a real one...just the sound of one. No need to call Social Services or anything.

We sat there for a while, not sure of what we were supposed to take away from this particular piece of instillation art. Something other than the feeling that this was completely ridiculous, I'm sure. Oh well. Some other dude crawled in. Kansas cracked some joke about how he was welcome and there was plenty of "womb". Then we all crawled out and made the prerequisite jokes about now all being siblings. Which made me look at Kansas and did the ol' "we must be from Kentucky" bit...it just all snowballed from there. The jokes kept coming out...we couldn't seem to stop them. We could tell that the artists were openly ready for us to leave. So we did...just in time to see some more people come down the hall. Some large people. People that were obviously following the "placenta" to the "womb". People who might not fit through the entrance. It took everything I had not to turn around to go back and watch that go down. Everything.

Nothing else in the night topped that.

Wait...that's a lie. I had tachos. TACHOS. Know what they are? Tater tot nachos. Yes.